


346 g (The Weight of a Heart)

by side_stickie_note (lost_stickie_note)



Category: X1 (Korea Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Happy Birthday Seungwoo!!!!, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Suicide, Mentions of self harm thoughts, SeungHan - Freeform, Seungwoo best boy who deserves the world aka Yohan, doctor!Seungwoo, medical AU, patient!Yohan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-24 15:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_stickie_note/pseuds/side_stickie_note
Summary: Seungwoo always thought he was good at fixing hearts, but maybe he doesn't know what to do when Yohan's is still broken afterwards.Medical AU, please read tags.#HAPPYBIRTHDAYSEUNGWOO
Relationships: Han Seungwoo/Kim Yohan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 92





	346 g (The Weight of a Heart)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspo really struck me for this one, and I felt like writing a medical AU + Seunghan seemed like the perfect CP fit for this concept. Mostly because of Yohan's past being an athlete and tried to inject as much feeling as I could with regards to that. -crosses fingers- T.T Sorry I haven't updated much recently. Really hoping to get back into the groove of things once the holidays hit. I hope you all enjoy! ♡
> 
> Disclaimer: I did the best I could with the medical terminology and progression of disease, etc. There may be a few slight inaccuracies. Also, of course, not condoning any inappropriate doctor-patient relationships, etc.
> 
> As always, thank you to the best beta readers I could possibly ever have. I love you both. ♡
> 
> Any comments, kudos, and feedback are always appreciated!
> 
> Twitter: [@sidestickienote](https://twitter.com/sidestickienote)

The human heart is a lot more complicated than we give it credit for.

Seungwoo knows this. He knows that the heartbeat starts with the sinoatrial (SA) node, this small piece of muscle tissue in the wall of the right atrium, the uppermost chamber of a four-chambered heart. It all starts right there from the instant people are born, the fluttering heartrate of a baby going at 120 to 160 beats per minute (bpm), at least ideally. He’s been lucky to have never seen a baby whose heart has beat otherwise. It’s a miracle really. That a heartbeat happens without any prodding, any actual thinking. Seungwoo thinks about this a lot. How these collection of cells just _know_ how to keep people alive. He wishes everything would be as simple.

“New consult, Seungwoo.”

The other resident turns to him with pleading eyes. “Do you want to take it or should I?” _Please take it._ Is what his eyes are saying. And Seungwoo looks with pity at the other guy who shouldn’t even be here right now, coming in just to cover for the day, forcing him into a double shift. Seungwoo hasn’t stayed up for over 24 hours yet, but the other resident has, his eyes almost half-closing as he talks to Seungwoo. “Yeah, sure. Info?”

“Kim Yohan. 23. Some kid who collapsed in the middle of some type of tournament.” The other resident frowns. “Didn’t catch for what exactly. Anyways, has a perfectly clean bill of health till now. Had his wisdom teeth pulled but that’s really it. No major surgeries or hospitalizations. No allergies to any drugs. Takes some over the counter stuff for environmental allergies, but not on any medications otherwise. Nothing in his family history in the way of heart problems either. Dad has high cholesterol, but that’s about it.”

The resident casts him a glance. “Mostly they want to check his heart just to be thorough. Think it’s probably just dehydration or something. But he’s pretty young.” He shrugs. “So who knows?”

The boy is sitting up in the bed when he goes in, looking a bit peaky and pale though otherwise alright, a picture of someone who doesn’t need to be in the hospital. His parents are sitting next to the bed, mom wringing her hands nervously, and dad trying to awkwardly pat and hold her hands simultaneously. Seungwoo introduces himself first, sticking out his hand for the boy to shake. “Han Seungwoo. I’ll be taking care of you today. And who am I speaking with today?”

“Kim Yohan.” The boy gives him a bright smile as he sticks out his hand for him to shake. “And these are my parents.” He waves his hand towards them. “See look, Mom? The doctor’s here. They didn’t somehow forget about me, so you can stop worrying.”

Yohan’s mom turns to look at him with widened eyes. “Is he going to be okay? He just-“ Her voice trails off, the words not coming forth, and Yohan’s dad continues the sentence. “-collapsed in the middle of his match.”

“Oh, match?”

“Yeah.” Yohan’s face lights up, his voice enthusiastic, clearly passionate about the topic at hand. “Taekwondo. I’ve been doing it since I was 4. And there’s a huge national competition coming up soon. Today was only a regional competition and more of practice for me than anything else.” Yohan pauses. “I already have a spot in the national competition.” The boy turns his gaze towards Seungwoo. “So doctor, it’s your responsibility to get me out of here as quick as possible.”

Seungwoo laughs. “Well, buddy. We’re going to try our best to do that. We’re going to run a few imaging tests. They already did your EKG, and I just want you to get an ECHO too. Basically it’s an ultrasound that looks specifically at your heart. You think we can get that done today?”

Yohan rolls his eyes. “Anything to get out of this hell.” The boy looks at him guiltily. “No offense.”

“Absolutely none taken.” Seungwoo shakes his head. “Sometimes I want to get out of here too.” He continues. “I’ve already slotted you in, so someone should be coming to wheel you down soon, and after I see the imaging, if you’re all clear, then you’re a free man.”

Yohan shoots him a thumbs up with both hands. “Perfect.”

Seungwoo is used to seeing older patients—their hearts a little worse for wear, weighed down by years of bad habits and emotional scars. And because of this, he’s often reminded of the fragility of life, the unexpected passing becoming not-so-unexpected. He’s used to looking at hearts with bad numbers, like little categorical tags that help him separate, define, organize.

He does his rounds, a few hours spent greeting everyone who had stayed from yesterday—mostly nothing has changed at all. And the addition of another new patient takes up most of his time, an old man coming into the hospital, rushed from his nursing home. It isn’t until he has the chance to sit down for lunch at half past two that he realizes Yohan’s image results are finalized, the notification flagging him down urgently as he logs in, an angry red. Seungwoo shovels food into his mouth as he opens it, scanning the numbers as he chews, the saltiness of his heated fried rice suddenly becoming tasteless.

They aren’t good numbers.

Seungwoo hates giving bad news.

23\. The kid is 23.

Life isn’t fucking fair.

“Have you eaten yet?” Seungwoo first asks when he gets into the room, Yohan cheerfully talking to his parents, and the question makes the boy groan in exasperation. “Not a bite. Couldn’t eat before they took that image thingy, and I missed them coming around with lunch options.” Yohan looks at him with pitiful puppy dog eyes, expression hopeful, and Seungwoo feels the stab straight in his chest. “Any way you can pull some strings to get them to bring me food specially?”

“Uh, yes, I can do that.” He murmurs, his voice thick with emotion that he can’t quite hold back. Not the best start. “But before that, I need to tell you something. Your imaging came back.”

Bad news is worse when the person isn’t expecting it at all.

The three of them sit through his explanation, unwieldy and awkward, and he carefully outlines for them what hypertrophic cardiomyopathy means, for Yohan’s current visit, for Yohan’s future. He finishes off the whole spiel with half-hearted cheer that sounds quite lame even to his own ears. “…the good news is that you’re going to be perfectly fine. We caught the diagnosis early, and the biggest risk—sudden cardiac death—is one that is mostly aggravated by intense physical exercise. If you avoid that, you’ll have minimal risks from this diagnosis. Of course, you will need to periodically follow-up with a cardiologist, but otherwise, you’ll be able to go about your every day life, just like normal.”

No one speaks for a few moments, the room far quieter than he can stand, the looming unspoken question taking all the air out of the room, out of his lungs. It’s Yohan who finally breaks the balance, his voice coming out small and soft.

“You said intense physical exercise. Does that mean I can’t do taekwondo anymore?”

Seungwoo can’t even get the ‘yes’ out.

Yohan’s dad beats him to it. “It’s okay, Yohan. It’s okay. It’ll be okay. There are other things out there besides taekwondo. It’s okay.” His mom struggles to put a smile on her face too, her lower lip wobbly, eyes already shiny with tears. “It’s okay, Yohan. Maybe you’ll be able to practice taekwondo again after a while, after you get better.” She looks up at him with a hopeful face. “Right, Dr. Han?”

He can’t look Yohan in the eye, though the boy wouldn’t know anyways, his gaze steely and affixed to the window, his chin stubbornly set, and Seungwoo can tell Yohan’s jaw is clenched, the muscle in his face tightening. “It would be best if he didn’t continue taekwondo at all. Just a precaution.” Seungwoo tries to compose himself before offering his condolences. “I’m sorry, Yohan.”

His words seem far too hollow and empty.

And it’s not enough.

He knows it’s not.

Seungwoo hesitates before reaching for the journal in the inner pocket of his white coat, a picture of balloons floating up into the sky, bright assorted pops of color on the cover. He doesn’t know why he grabbed it from the gift shop, a sudden impulse coming over him as he passed. Seungwoo really doesn’t think it’s the most appropriate to give his patient a gift. But…23. He relents, fudging the rules for once. “Sometimes, Yohan…” He quietly places the journal on the boy’s bedside stand. “…it’s helpful to write about things like this. I know it’s really huge news, and a lot to process. Just…” Seungwoo pauses. “…consider it.”

He almost forgets to ask about the food before leaving the room.

“Yohan, what would you like me to ask the kitchen to get for you?”

The boy’s only response is to duck underneath the covers, pulling them over his head so that his face reflected in the window glass disappears.

Seungwoo doesn’t see him cry.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur, his body on autopilot, the faces one after another melding into each other, his patients’ problems piling on and on, weighing heavily on his shoulders. By the end of the day, Seungwoo needs to will his feet to keep moving through sheer willpower. It isn’t until he stops finally, the words on the computer blurring in front of his tired eyes, that he hears his stomach growl and realizes the only thing he’s eaten all day is half a granola bar.

Twenty minutes, he tells himself.

He prays there are no fires to put out in the twenty minutes he is gone.

Seungwoo takes his food from the hospital cafeteria outside, around the corner of the building, heading to his favorite bench to sit on. There are too many people in the cafeteria usually, mostly patients and their families, and he always feels distinctly out of place when he walks around there, many of the patients greeting him with an awe and reverence, as if he’s some type of god that can save them. He’s no god, and sometimes he feels like he can’t even save himself.

There’s someone sitting on his bench, and as he gets closer, his heart sinks, the familiar face coming into view. And he’s just about to turn around and high-tail it out of there when Yohan spots him, waving for him to come over. “Hey!” Seungwoo briefly considers how cruel it would be to give the boy bad news and also ignore his request to eat together all in one day.

He sits.

Yohan’s already mostly finished with his meal, the few spoonfuls of rice left in the bowl, the remainder of the meat stuck to the sides, a few stray vegetables at the bottom. He tears the plastic off his own dinner, the sandwich in an easy package that he can always grab on the go, quickly dispose of into his stomach. Seungwoo takes a first bite with relief, the food a welcome distraction from talking, and he turns as Yohan speaks up. “So, I actually took your advice.” Yohan waves the notebook at him. “I started writing. Do you want to see?”

Seungwoo isn’t sure he does.

But he holds out his hand for it anyway, nodding, his mouth full with food still.

The first page.

There are a few cross-outs, and some doodles in the margins. _So today I found out that I can never do taekwondo again. Dad tried to convince me that I can have a promising career in finance maybe. Ha, that’s a real joke. Taking one economics class in university isn’t exactly going to make my resume shine like a diamond._ He reads quickly, most of the words a rambling of what Yohan had talked about with his parents in the afternoon.

He flips the page, only one sentence written at the top.

_At least my doctor’s cute._

“Y-you weren’t supposed to see that.”

And the notebook is suddenly plucked out of his hands, and Seungwoo’s met by the sight of Yohan’s blushing face, the younger boy’s cheeks turning a deep scarlet. He shakes his head, a grin coming over his face. “Well, that’s a nice thought, Yohan, but patient-doctor relationships are strictly prohibited.” If possible, Yohan turns an even deeper shade of red. Seungwoo glances down at his watch. “And my twenty minutes are almost up so I need to get back inside.” He motions at Yohan’s dinner. “If you’re done, I can walk you to your room so we can quickly update your parents at the same time. You’re pretty much all set to go though. You’ll have a follow-up appointment with me, and you just need to call the number on your discharge paperwork to set it up.”

Yohan nods and gets up to follow him, staring down at his shoes the entire walk back, and Seungwoo is torn between telling the other boy to hurry up, his legs itching to get back to his desk, and slowing down to keep pace with Yohan. He slows down. One, two, three, four, five. It takes them exactly one hundred and fifty seven steps to get back to Yohan’s hospital room. The boy’s parents are anxious, and Seungwoo can’t blame them. After all, he did just change the course of their son’s life in a matter of half an hour this morning. They don’t want to go home just yet, and Seungwoo relents, telling them they can stay overnight even though they really need the extra hospital bed, at least six people waiting in the emergency room backed up in a line to come upstairs. It’s a small price to pay, Seungwoo thinks, to calm the aching guilt in his chest.

He doesn’t have the heart to tell them that staying in the hospital doesn’t make their son any safer than going home.

Seungwoo thinks too much.

All the time.

He doesn’t stop thinking about Yohan until he falls asleep.

The next morning is a mess. A needs-three-cups-of-coffee type of mess. Caffeine isn’t the best thing for the heart. It spikes epinephrine into the body, just the right shot of adrenaline Seungwoo needs to keep himself going. And his heartbeat goes up too, as does his blood pressure. Not to mention it makes him want to constantly go to the bathroom and take a piss. Sometimes he feels like a hypocrite, telling his patients that they should drink less caffeine when he’s sure he drinks at least five times more than anyone else. But Seungwoo feels like he can worry about that later, still young enough to not be bogged down by worries of heart disease. Yohan’s face flashes in his head, and suddenly, Seungwoo doesn’t feel like finishing his coffee.

He saves Yohan for last in his day, knowing the boy will be one of his easiest patients to handle, the rest of his patients a never-ending list of tasks for today. A whole stack of EKGs that he needs to flip through. Good, bad, fine, emergency. He doesn’t think his pager stops going off all day. But he does it, manages to make it through, and Seungwoo is on his fifth cup of coffee by the time he does get around to seeing Yohan.

It’s only the boy in the room when he goes, neither parent in sight. And Yohan is on his phone, tapping at the screen, some type of mobile game flashing pretty lights that Seungwoo doesn’t recognize. “Hey, Yohan.”

The boy doesn’t look up when he speaks. “Hi, Dr. Han.”

The doctor makes him feel weird all of a sudden. The only thing separating the two of them is five years, and the fact that Yohan has something wrong with his heart, and Seungwoo doesn’t. Yohan doesn’t offer anything further, and Seungwoo feels like he’s grasping at straws. “How was your day?”

“Fine.”

The music from the boy’s mobile game is distracting, loud, and Seungwoo feels the pounding of a headache coming on, the combination of lack of sleep, too much caffeine, and a very long day. He spots the journal on the bedside table, and Seungwoo reaches out for it like a lifeline. “Oh, have you written anything today Yohan? I’d be happy to read it.”

“Wait.” Yohan looks up for the first time since he walked into the room, voice panicked, but Seungwoo has already opened it, already seen the words written on a fresh and new page, the whole thing scribbled out furiously, the pen digging deep grooves into the paper. But even so, it doesn’t hide the words. Not enough.

_I want to die._

Seungwoo feels his heart sink. He’s not equipped to handle this. He’s used to shouldering everyone’s problems, used to his patients reaching the ends of their lives, used to everything going to complete and utter shit. But Yohan, Yohan, Yohan. Seungwoo fumbles around in his pocket for cards he knows are there, swearing as he tries to dig through everything, grabbing a pen and a piece of paper. “Yohan, are you having any thoughts of harming yourself?”

“No.” Yohan doesn’t look him in the eye when he answers.

“Yohan, I’m serious. I need you to tell me the truth. I can’t let you leave if you’re going to hurt yourself once you do.”

Yohan finally looks at him, blinking rapidly, the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, voice small. “No…I was just sad earlier. I didn’t really mean it.” The tears start sliding down the other boy’s cheeks, Yohan rubbing at his eyes. “I’m just u-upset. About the taekwondo thing. Mom and dad say they get it, but they don’t. No one does.”

Seungwoo crouches down so he’s eye-level with Yohan sitting in the bed, writing a few things down on the paper. “Yohan, I know it’s hard.” He starts softly, unsure of how the boy will react. “I’m going to set up an appointment for you to see a therapist, okay? I think it’s best that you have someone to talk to that’s not your parents about this.” He hands the other boy a few business cards. “I’m going to set this first meeting up with the lady I like best, the one I send most of my patients to. But not everyone likes the same people. So if you meet her and don’t like her, these are a few others that you can call and see instead.”

He waits patiently for Yohan to respond, the other boy sniffling as he cries. “Ummm, can you hand me some tissues?”

“Of course.” Seungwoo hands the box of tissues over, watching as Yohan pulls a bunch out and starts blowing his nose. “Yohan? Can you promise me that you’ll go to this appointment?”

“Fine, I will.” Seungwoo lets out a breath that he doesn’t even know he was holding. “Sorry you had to see me be such a fucking mess.” Yohan smiles at him sheepishly, his eyes still puffy and slightly red, giving a loud sniff in the process.

He nearly rolls his eyes but stops himself, the smile coming to his face unwittingly. “Yohan, you’re not the first and certainly not the last person I’ve seen cry. Please don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t really want to be a crying mess in front of my hot doctor.”

Seungwoo is rendered speechless for at least five heartbeats.

“Yohan,” He tries to come off as stern, shaking his finger for added effect, but it’s hard when the younger boy is laughing in his face, tear-streaked face lit up with a brief happiness. “I really think you should stop hitting on me.”

“Whatever you say doctor.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Seungwoo ends up staying, talking to Yohan until his shift is long over, keeping the other boy occupied with conversations about anything and everything—school, work, family, likes, dislikes, video games, books, movies—until his parents come back to discharge him. He tells Yohan’s parents about the therapist to the other boy’s chagrin, looking at him wide-eyed with betrayal. Yohan’s parents take the news exactly how he expects, fussing over the boy, his mother’s nervous demeanor coming through as Yohan insists that he is fine. The other boy mock glares at him as he leaves, but Seungwoo is delighted to see Yohan in an evidently better mood.

It isn’t until he is staring up at the ceiling at night lying in his bed that he lets himself think about it—Yohan flirting with him.

It isn’t good for his heart.

Doctors aren’t supposed to get attached to their patients, and Seungwoo has spent far too long building those walls for Yohan to come around and try to knock them down now.

The adult human heart can pump about 6,000-7,500 liters of blood daily. That is how much work it takes to keep people alive, to keep people not dead. Seungwoo always marvels at this fact every time he’s reminded of it. To put that in even more perspective, 6 liters is about 134 shots of liquor, and Seungwoo feels like he could use just about that many drinks by the time he sees Yohan again two weeks later, 84,000-105,000 liters of blood pumped through his system later.

Seungwoo is grumpy.

Yohan knows it as soon as he walks in, letting him do all the necessary check-up things without saying much of anything. And Seungwoo does, runs through the entire list of concerns, makes sure to meticulously check everything possible to assure himself that Yohan is in good health, that the other boy will not somehow drop dead suddenly. Fuck, bad fucking joke. Seungwoo regrets even thinking it.

“So Yohan, besides that, how have you been feeling?”

The other boy is sitting on the examination table, hands curled around the edge, swinging his legs off the side. The whole thing just reminds Seungwoo that even though their ages aren’t too far apart, Yohan _feels_ just that much younger. “I’ve been feeling good.” Yohan’s face brightens. “Actually, I got to see that therapist you referred me to for an appointment with yesterday. She’s nice. I can see why you send your patients to her.”

“Oh really?” The response catches him off guard for a second, pulling him out of his bad mood. “I didn’t expect that you would get an appointment so fast. She’s usually booked pretty heavily. That’s great.”

“Yup.” Yohan grins at him slyly. “All I did was drop your name, and the secretary was happy to fit me in. Sounds like you’re a popular guy, Dr. Han.” Yohan gives a low whistle. “And I can see why.” Seungwoo swears inwardly as he feels the blush starting to heat his cheeks, hoping that the other boy doesn’t notice. No such luck. Yohan laughs, the sound making his heartbeat ricochet upwards, roaring in his ears. “Kidding. They had a last minute cancellation just as I called, and it was a time that was convenient for me.”

Contrary to popular belief, it’s bad for the heart to skip a beat. It’s why Seungwoo hates the expression, it’s just so inaccurate, so medically wrong, so, so--

His heart skips a beat.

“And I’ve been writing more in the journal you gave me.” Yohan keeps talking as he digs into his backpack, searching for the notebook, finally giving a little _aha_ when he finds it, handing it over to Seungwoo to take. “I think I’ve grown a bit more used to it now. My parents are really surprised in fact. Since I normally hate writing.” Yohan pauses. “I talked with the therapist yesterday about working on goals I’d like to accomplish and other coping strategies. So I guess I’m going to start on those soon.”

Seungwoo flips through the pages, skimming the words written, most of it just documenting Yohan’s day and thoughts the other boy feels at the end of the night. One particular section catches his eye, a corner marked off at the bottom of the seventh page, a list clearly started.

New career options?

The list is blank, just the numbers marked off to the side—#1, #2, #3, #4, #5—with nothing written next to them.

Seungwoo doesn’t say anything.

“This is great, Yohan. I’m glad you got to your first therapy appointment, and I’m glad you’re having fun trying all these new things.” Seungwoo smiles at Yohan, his first real smile all day. “Really, truly happy for you.”

Yohan smiles back, face blindingly sweet. “I’m glad too.”

The human heart can slow down its heartrate significantly once people go to sleep. It can sometimes go as low as 40 bpm naturally without any problem whatsoever. Perfectly fine. Whereas that _exact_ same heartrate while alive would set off all the panicked warning bells in Seungwoo’s head. Sometimes Seungwoo wonders whether anyone else thinks about how thin the line is between sleep and death. Maybe he’s the only one. He’s sure he’s not the only one. On the other hand, sleep is essential for a healthy heart, with a lack of sleep contributing to higher risk for heart disease. Pretty fucking ironic. That sleeping can bring the heartrate closer to death yet is really keeping the heart in better health.

Seungwoo spends all his time before seeing Yohan again testing the odds and increasing his risk for heart disease.

“Seungwoo?”

“Hmm?”

“This patient that just came in. Notes in the system said you discharged him four months ago. Do you want to take him? And I’ll cover the other admission that’s on the way?”

“Yeah, sure.” Seungwoo turns in his chair, looking up from the stack of notes that he’s reading through, munching on another bite of his apple. There’s a presentation he’s supposed to give tomorrow during noontime conference, a talk on a case he had seen two weeks ago, an interesting patient for sure. And he isn’t prepared, spending far too many hours at the hospital than he had anticipated, the information for his presentation half melding into his head along with the rest of his day. “Who is it?”

“A Kim Yohan?”

Seungwoo’s chest hurts.

He tries to blame it on the coffee in his head.

Everyone is crying when he walks in, and Seungwoo winces as Yohan’s mother bursts into a renewed round of sobs as soon as she sees him, clearly recognizing him from their last visit. The tears are rolling silently down Yohan’s face, the boy’s lower lip quivering, and Yohan lets it happen, not bothering to reach for the tissues like his parents. “Hi Mr. and Mrs. Kim, did you all just arrive?” Yohan’s father nods at him in response, and Seungwoo softens his tone even further, trying to be kind. “Have you two eaten yet? It’s already late in the day. Would you two want to step out and grab some food first? Maybe some hot tea too help calm down?”

Yohan’s father looks at him gratefully, his eyes full of understanding, his arm around his wife, rubbing her back. “Honey, let’s go eat something and let Dr. Han take care of Yohan, okay?”

“But—” Her gaze flickers between the boy and him, tearfully trying to finish the sentence, gulping down tears. “We can’t leave Yohan alone—”

His father’s voice is firm. “Yohan is in good hands with Dr. Han. He is an adult. He’ll be fine if we leave for a few minutes.”

Seungwoo chimes in to reassure her, his voice low and soothing. “I just want to talk to Yohan for a little bit, and I will go over everything again once you two come back. I promise you won’t miss anything important. I just want to make sure you get the chance to eat something before the cafeteria downstairs closes for dinner.”

Yohan’s father thanks him profusely again as they walk out of the room, his mother asking Yohan repeatedly if he’d be alright, the rounds of _I’ll be fine_ echoing in the small room, the boy’s tone insistent. Seungwoo waits until the parents are gone before taking a seat in one of the vacated chairs, bringing himself down to Yohan’s eye level. “Yohan, can you tell me what happened?” The other boy doesn’t speak for a few moments, instead choosing to lean back into the bed and close his eyes, his arm half covering his face.

Seungwoo waits.

When Yohan does speak, his voice comes out so much smaller than Seungwoo remembers, smaller than the time Yohan first found out the news, the boy hunched into a rounded ball, his shoulders coming forwards. The boy stares into his lap when he speaks, wringing his hands together, his tone laced with nervousness. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

Seungwoo waits.

“I thought it’d be fine. I mean, I didn’t _feel_ any different, not for months. I still don’t think I feel any different.” Yohan pauses, voice cracking, letting the tears roll down his cheeks, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes. The boy’s voice drops lower into a whisper. “So I tried to…practice some of my taekwondo stuff. I thought it might be okay. I didn’t think— And it was fine for my warmup exercises and stuff." Yohan’s voice gradually gets more distressed as he continues. “It wasn’t until I was getting to the harder moves—”

Seungwoo waits.

“My mom found me.”

He doesn’t want to ask, the words clawing at his inside of his head, tainting the edges of his mind, but he knows he should. Seungwoo takes a deep breath, filling his chest with as much room as possible, letting the air out slowly, speaking in the most measured tone he can muster. “Yohan,” His ribcage feels tight. “I know we talked about this the last time you were here. But are you having any new thoughts—”

Yohan’s head snaps up at his words, eyes widened, still glistening with tears, mouth open in surprise. “No, _no_. It’s not that. I promise.” And Seungwoo wants to believe it, wants to take Yohan’s sincerity at face value, the skepticism eating away at his thoughts. “Yohan, really, I need you to tell me if you’ve been having a rough time at all.”

“It’s not that.” Yohan insists. “I swear.”

Seungwoo forges on, the abyss inside him growing rapidly as he talks, and he can hear the words tumbling out in a torrent, racing to come out in a way that makes him feel as if he’s spiraling, not quite having a handle on things. “Yohan, have you been seeing the therapist every week since the last time we met?” He pauses for a split second before continuing. “It’s _very_ important that-“

“You’re not listening.” The anger comes out brash, hurt, and Seungwoo catches his breath as he sees the briefest flash of pain roll across Yohan’s face before the boy covers his face with his arm again, drawing the curtain down over his emotions.

Seungwoo waits.

He takes a deep breath when Yohan does, matching his inhale, exhale.

Fuck.

Yohan bites his lower lip as he starts talking, his voice calmer now. “It’s not that.” The boy takes another deep breath, eyes staring at him earnestly. “It’s just-“ Another deep breath.

Seungwoo waits.

“I’ve been doing taekwondo since I was four. It’s the first thing I got lessons in, and my parents drove me every weekend to learn. And I was _good_ at it, like _really_ good.” A pause, and Yohan looks back down at his hands. “When I was in middle school, I started practicing four hours a day, five days a week after school. It was the only thing I did after school. And it only got more intense when I hit high school and competitions started to matter.” Yohan lets out a sigh, tilting his head upwards to stare at the ceiling. “But it was fine because I really _loved_ it, you know?”

He doesn’t know.

“But the point is,” Yohan takes another deep breath before looking intently at him again. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever done, the only thing I’ve always been good at, and without taekwondo, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” Yohan’s voice cracks when he drops into a low whisper. “I don’t really know who I am without it.” The ache in his chest deepens when he sees the younger boy’s eyes filling with tears again. “And that’s what hurts more than anything else.” Yohan looks at him pleadingly. “I was just trying to feel myself.”

Seungwoo hates being mean, absolutely loathes it.

But the words come out anyway, thick and heavy and weighted.

“Yohan, do you know what hurts?” The pause gives him emphasis, but he feels repugnant about it, and Seungwoo wonders when he had given up on taking the high ground. “When someone has to watch their friend, their patient, their _son_ live like they’re dying.” The younger boy’s jaw tightens when he says it, but before he can respond, the door to the room opens, Yohan’s parents appearing, food and drink in hand. And Seungwoo pretends, something he’s good at, keeping the boy’s parents calm, speaking to them in reassuring tones, appearing far more collected than he feels on the inside, the ache just getting stronger as Yohan’s jaw remains tightened, the other boy refusing to look at him.

Yohan doesn’t cry the rest of the time he’s in the room.

Seungwoo doesn’t stop thinking about Yohan even when he’s gone home. Not when he’s microwaving the remaining leftovers he has for dinner, the rest of his fridge tragically bare, not when he’s showering, scrubbing the shampoo into his hair trying to wash away the negative thoughts, not when he’s working on putting the last minute touches to his presentation, finally giving up as he feels the headache coming on, not when he’s lying in bed staring up at his ceiling, his racing mind not letting sleep come easily.

He’s used to fixing people’s hearts, not breaking them.

Nightmares can cause the heart to race upon waking.

Seungwoo is nervous the next morning, his alarm going off without him responding, his body still managing to wake him up in time to get to the hospital by the skin of his teeth, just not early enough for him to throw together the last few slides he had planned on. He spins his pen nervously in his hand, glancing upwards periodically to check that no one has tried to get his attention, only half processing what the doctor at the front of the conference room is saying. Seungwoo hopes he’s being subtle, squinting down at his lap, at the words that are far too small on his phone screen, attempting to type in the last few things he needs with one hand without anyone noticing.

There.

Done.

The relief is palpable.

It bleeds into his interactions, and he happily writes off the necessary orders for his morning patients, one of the old men thanking him profusely. And Seungwoo lets himself be regaled with stories of the man’s younger self, the good old days where he’d get up to all sorts of trouble, the old man’s wife smiling at the memories, chiding him for taking up too much of the doctor’s time. Seungwoo waves her concern off, insisting on hearing the story of how they had first met to the wife’s chagrin. It’s an embarrassing one, and Seungwoo laughs and smiles in all the right places.

All in all, it’s a good start to the day.

He tries not to think about the fact that he’s avoiding Yohan’s room.

Or whether it means anything.

In and out.

He’ll get in and out, just check in on Yohan right before going to his lunchtime conference, giving his presentation, and finishing off his day without any further hiccups. _Today is going to be a good day._ He repeats it to himself like a mantra, willing himself to buy into it. “Dr. Han, can you sign these orders?”

“Yes, of course.” He scribbles his signature messily onto the sheet of paper that the nurse hands to him.

Deep breaths.

In and out.

Seungwoo is ten steps and four or five heartbeats away from the room when it happens. It takes him a heartbeat too long to realize that the light going off is from Yohan’s room, the angry red flashing above the other boy’s door, the flash flood of people who suddenly appear to rush in. He’s at the bedside in two heartbeats, and Seungwoo isn’t sure whether it’s the sound of the machine going off that’s pounding in his head or the adrenaline making his heartbeat sound like a roar in his ears.

He knows how to do this.

He’s done it more than a dozen times.

His hands are on Yohan’s chest, fingers interlocking and intertwined, the heel of his right hand digging into the sternum. Seungwoo pushes down with everything he has, the weight of desperation. He can’t remember how far down he’s supposed to go. Two inches? Three inches? Seungwoo can’t even tell if it’s enough, if anything he’s doing is enough, every fiber of his being wanting to not push too hard as to not break Yohan even though he knows the crack is normal. Fuck. The normal adult human heart beats on average about 60 to 100 bpm. And so he should be pushing at 100 bpm. No, higher. 110 bpm, 120 bpm. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck.

He’s thankful that his body just takes over to fill in the gaps that his mind is too panicked to catch.

And Seungwoo knows it’s not.

But it feels like forever.

It is still the longest minute and thirteen seconds of his life.

Seungwoo nearly sobs when he sees Yohan breathe.

And suddenly everyone is pushing him out of the way, the nurses rushing forward to check a million and one things, the number of helping hands far too many, and he feels like he’s suffocating, too many bodies cramped into one space. So he steps back, further and further until he’s out the door, down the hallway, and behind a locked stall in the bathroom.

He misses lunch.

He misses his presentation.

He gets a text from the other resident saying they heard what happened, and he’s perfectly fine covering for Seungwoo.

Seungwoo doesn’t come out until he’s stopped trembling.

1224 heartbeats.

The rest of the day passes by in a haze, thankfully none of his patients requiring much attention today, and Seungwoo gets his hiccup-free afternoon just as he had wished. He thinks he would have traded his whole peaceful afternoon, no, his whole goddamn month, to get that minute and thirteen seconds back though. The other resident pats him on the back sympathetically when he sees him, the soft smile on his face as he comforts him. _At least it turned out alright._ Yes, yes it had turned out alright.

But that still doesn’t give Seungwoo his minute and thirteen seconds back.

He somehow makes it to the end of his shift without any further mishaps, and Seungwoo hesitates when packing up, wondering if he should go in and check on Yohan another time, properly talk to him instead of letting his nurses feed him tidbits of information instead. He wonders whether it makes him a coward—that he even thinks about leaving without saying a word. Probably. Seungwoo needs to remind himself to breathe before walking into the room, his lungs tight, the twinge in his chest. He goes into it with the brightest fake smile he can plaster on his face without looking homicidal. And lets out a sigh of relief when he sees Yohan sleeping peacefully in the bed, turning tail to leave, a sign from Fate.

“Dr. Han?”

Shit.

He plops himself down in the chair beside Yohan’s bed, too tired, too worn out from the day to maintain a stricter sense of decorum. “Yohan, how are you feeling?” Seungwoo says softly, searching the other boy’s face for any signs of discomfort, slightly pale but otherwise looking okay, eyes still bright and shiny like glass marbles. “I’m fine. Just a bit tired.” The small smile Yohan returns towards him is uncertain, and Seungwoo is struck by the knowledge that they had not exactly ended their last visit amicably, the memory of Yohan refusing to look at him haunting. _It seems so long ago, but it was only yesterday._

“You left before I could say anything to you.”

“Hmm?”

“Earlier today.” Yohan closes his eyes briefly, and when they open, Seungwoo pretends not to see the gleaming wetness in the other boy’s eyes. “I remember seeing your face, but you weren’t in the room when I took a second look around.”

Seungwoo wonders whether he should lie but decides against it.

“I’m sorry.”

“Well, I spent the rest of the afternoon writing in my journal and stuff.” Seungwoo leans forward as Yohan shuffles through his things, retrieving the somewhat worse for wear notebook, the front cover creased, the spot where it had been bent clearly visible. And he doesn’t try to point out the fake cheerfulness that the other boy is injecting into his voice, the sound making his chest hurt. “I thought you might want to see it.”

Seungwoo flips through the journal, noting the meticulously dated pages at the top, none from the past week and a half. And then today’s entries, a long list of ramblings, the other boy listing out various things he likes doing, things he might want to try, things he’s already good at. Seungwoo doesn’t miss the fact that the ‘New Career Options?’ list on the seventh page now has two additions, under numbers 1 and 2, the second one hastily scribbled out. The first entry is ‘Teacher’ with three question marks following, the second ‘Accountant,’ barely visible under the multiple lines of ink running through the word.

The pages from today are hopeful.

And so is Yohan’s face when he looks up from reading.

“I decided you might be right.” Yohan looks down at his hands when he shakes his head, his tone laced with regret. “Yohan, I didn’t mean-“

“No, no, you were right.” The other boy lets out a deep sigh, and Yohan’s eyes are determined when he looks back up to stare at Seungwoo. “I was acting like a child yesterday, and it’s time to do better. Time to _be_ better. And I know I’m not quite there yet. But I’m going to work harder at it.”

_You’re already working hard enough._

“You’re going to be great, Yohan. No matter what you do.”

Seungwoo cries when he gets home, for the first time in a long time, the sobs seeping out of him like the trickle from an overflowing glass, the tears tracking paths down his cheeks, his shoulders curling into himself, his arms hugging his knees close to his chest to keep himself together. He cries for Yohan. He cries for himself. He cries until he’s empty and has nothing left in him, the exhaustion taking over his body suddenly, his arms and legs feeling heavy. It takes all his energy to drag himself into his bed, a dreamless sleep overtaking him.

The next day he skips his lunch break to talk to Yohan. Probably not the best idea since by the end Yohan decides that he has the right to call him Seungwoo instead of Dr. Han. Seungwoo can’t say he particularly hates it, but he chides the other boy anyways, only for Yohan to pay him no mind. It makes him embarrassed, makes the tips of his ears burn, and Seungwoo reminds Yohan that it’s _Dr. Han_ another time before leaving, the echo of Yohan’s voice yelling out _Seungwoo_ trailing after him for the rest of the day like a shadow, clinging and refusing to let go. He never thought he’d be begging for anyone to call him Dr. Han instead of his given name, the split out giggles coming from Yohan in defiance bringing a glow to his face long after the other boy leaves the hospital.

The normal oxygen level in the blood ranges approximately from 75 mmHg to 100 mmHg. The heart works hard to bring oxygen to different parts of the body, courtesy of the blood running through the arteries, capillaries, and veins. It enters the right side of the heart first, passing through the right atrium and right ventricle, the upper and lower chamber, respectively. Then it routes to the lungs, passing by the pulmonary artery like a hand wave, where it picks up life. The hit of oxygen that Seungwoo knows is good for him every time he takes a deep breath. Then through the left side of the heart and out the aorta to be pumped to every other part of the body. Seungwoo imagines it sometimes in his head, the blood flowing all the way to his fingertips and toes. Yohan takes his breath away, and perhaps Seungwoo feels the lack of oxygen like a shot of euphoric lightheadedness.

Good thing his heart still works.

Seungwoo knows something is up when Yohan is quiet throughout the first part of his follow-up appointment. He _knows_ it, senses it like there’s an unspoken question hanging in the air, like a cup that is teetering off the edge of a table, the brief instant before the heaviness hits, and it shatters against the floor. When he looks back to tell Yohan that he’s doing fine, the other boy has a pleading expression plastered on his face, journal clutched in both hands, hard enough that his knuckles turn white like a sliver of moon hanging in a dark sky.

“I- Seungwoo, I want to try it.” He waits as Yohan clears his throat nervously. “Teaching. Taekwondo, I mean. It won’t be intense, I promise.” The other boy shakes his head frantically as he spots Seungwoo starting to open his mouth to object. “It’s the little kids at the place I used to learn. The small ones that are just starting out. My old coach…” Yohan sets his mouth into a determined curve. “…he asked if I wanted to help out.” A pause. “That’s all.”

He hates that he doesn’t even bother correcting Yohan for calling him Seungwoo.

“How much?”

“How much what?” Yohan casts a confused look in his direction, his entire face scrunching up to match.

“How much exercise would this position require?” He patiently asks, handing over a piece of scrap paper and a pen. “How often, and how much?” Seungwoo doesn’t notice that he’s holding his breath upon seeing Yohan’s face light up until it comes out in one big whoosh when the other boy looks down, scribbling down the words. Yohan hands him the sheet of paper when he finishes, the rough outlines of a schedule as well as documented list of exercises per session written to the side. “It- wouldn’t be that many days. Maybe two or three times per week. And we only do the simple moves with the younger kids.”

He scans over the contents quickly. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes, okay.” Seungwoo nearly laughs at the look of unrestrained excitement on Yohan’s face, eyes widened, mouth gaping. “But-“ He points his finger sternly at the other boy, drawing his eyebrows together for good measure. “You need to make _sure_ you’re not doing too much. I’m serious, Yohan.” A pause. “And I might want to start you on a medication actually. I’ve been considering it after you’ve had the two hospitalizations, but I wanted to wait a little bit before bringing it up.”

“Fine, yes. Anything.” Yohan’s smile is the perfect scoop of ice cream, all rounded and sleek. The other boy repeats the word, breathing life into the room, thick enough that Seungwoo can inhale it into his lungs, pump it through his veins. “Anything.”

The grin stays on Yohan’s face the entire time he spends explaining the new medication, risks and side effects, how it should be taken, and every other nitty gritty detail he needs to give to make sure Yohan knows what to do exactly. Seungwoo doesn’t bat an eye when the other boy leaves him with parting words that cause his chest to swell with a happiness that he might finally feel like he deserves.

“Thank you, Seungwoo.”

Around 366,000-457,500 liters of blood pumped before he sees Yohan again. The average heart rate for an adult is 60 bpm to 100 bpm. Their visit lasts 4,184 heartbeats. Correction, Yohan calls him Seungwoo when leaving again, and those two seconds add another 6 heartbeats. So 4,190 heartbeats in total.

Seungwoo tries to stop drinking as much coffee. He figures it will be better for his heart, better for _him_ in the long run. He manages to cut down to only 1-2 cups of coffee per day before the next time he follows-up with Yohan. With his average-sized coffees, it means he’s only intaking about 95 mg to 190 mg of caffeine per day. It’s a small miracle, and he’s tired as shit all the time, but he wakes right up the instant he sees the other boy smile. Seungwoo listens as Yohan tells him about all the kids he’s teaching, smiles at all the pictures Yohan shows him.

“Dr. Han?” He turns swiftly when he hears the secretary call his name as he walks into clinic, the appointments for his afternoon booked all the way through, the anticipation of seeing Yohan, the first scheduled, giving him the energy he needs after a long morning.

“Yes?”

“I just want to let you know that this will be your last appointment with Kim Yohan.” The secretary gives him a sympathetic look as he shoots her one of disbelief. “He came in and during check-in, he asked to switch doctors for his follow-up appointments in the future.”

He doesn’t know how else to describe it, all inaccurate and imprecise.

His heart sinks.

“Oh.” It’s the most he can come up with in response, struggling to keep the fact that his _heart is sinking_ from showing on his face, attempting to muster up a small smile in return. “Thank you.”

The words sting, a bit.

A lot.

164 heartbeats.

Until he finishes walking down the hallway and needs to see Yohan.

178 heartbeats.

He takes a moment at the door to breathe in some deep breaths before opening it, plastering the same fake smile on to his face that he had a lifetime ago. Seungwoo sees Yohan’s side profile first, the other boy already on the examination table, legs swinging, staring down at the journal in his lap. Yohan looks up when he hears the door open, his face turning, his hair flopping over, his mouth widening into a smile, his eyes crinkling as his cheekbones rise. Seungwoo tries not to think about it, the fact that he doesn’t even need to look to see it all, the image of Yohan burned into the back of his eyelids as he goes to bed at night.

“Hi, Yohan.”

“Hi, Seungwoo.”

His name still makes him smile, a real one. Deep breath. Seungwoo works quickly, there’s not much left to do anyways since Yohan’s been doing great, following all his instructions, taking the medication, limiting the number of hours and intensity of his physical exercise, seeing his therapist still, now down to once every two or three weeks. It’s good, it’s all very good. And Seungwoo is happy. Yes, happy. He lets Yohan talk about all the things that are going on in his life, lets him talk about living, really living his life, and Seungwoo gives himself a mental pat on the back for his smashing patient success story.

_Yes, congrats Seungwoo._

“Yohan, can we talk about why you want to switch doctors?” Seungwoo feels a bit bad for interrupting the other boy’s story about the four-year-old who ended up falling on his butt, but he wants to know, needs to know before he watches Yohan walk out the door and right out of his life. He hates himself a little when he sees Yohan’s face fall, his eyes go wide with a slight panic.

“I was going to ask you as the last thing before I left.” He doesn’t expect or know what to make of the impish look that comes across Yohan’s face, the other boy grinning cheerfully. “Here you go.” Yohan hands him the journal, the balloons on the cover a familiar sight, a shiny new red bookmark sticking out the top, marking off a page in the middle. Seungwoo flips open the journal, eyes quickly reading, the words on the page stunning him into silence.

7 heartbeats.

“Yohan- you know, this isn’t-“ Seungwoo glances upwards at Yohan whose smile hasn’t left his face. “We’ve talked about this.” Yohan shakes his head emphatically, swinging his legs, his hands grasping the edge of examination table. “Seungwoo, will you go on a date with me?”

“We’ve talked about this.” Seungwoo struggles to find the right words to say, to convince Yohan, to convince himself. “I’m your doctor, and it’s highly inappropriate to have any type of personal relationship with a patient.”

“Which is why after today, you’re no longer my doctor.”

It takes a lot to render Seungwoo speechless.

But Yohan somehow manages to take away all his words, more times than he’d care to admit.

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Yohan. There’s a lot of complications right now in our current relationship with each other.” Seungwo soldiers on helplessly, searching Yohan’s face for the answers. “I think you might just be projecting on to me perhaps, thinking that you have feelings for me when it’s only because I saved your life. And that’s not exactly healthy and-“

“What do you mean? You didn’t save my life, you wrecked it.” Seungwoo can’t help the small intake of breath, the distressed noise too soft to hear but still too loud in his head. “Kidding, of course.”

Yohan frowns, his eyebrows knitting together as he does so. “Seungwoo, I definitely don’t have some misplaced feelings for you because of anything that has happened between us within our doctor-patient relationship. Really, truly.” A pause. “And actually-“ Yohan looks down at his hands, his voice becoming more quiet, serious. “If anything, this whole thing has really given me a chance to find myself, you know?” Yohan stares at him earnestly, just always so earnest. “Just to figure out all the stuff that is really _me_. For a long time, I really thought taekwondo was everything, no, the only thing I had that made me myself.” Another pause. “But it’s not true, and it’s nice to know.”

The small smile makes Seungwoo feel as if he’s the younger one, and he wonders when Yohan had grown up or whether the other boy had always been grown-up and Seungwoo just never noticed.

“I’m thinking of maybe doing music.” Yohan small smile deepens into a laughing grin, his tone light and teasing. “Which is the other reason why you have to say yes. Take some responsibility. You’re partially to blame for potentially turning me into some poor starving musician, so really, I feel like I deserve to have you as my rich hotshot doctor boyfriend.”

Seungwoo blushes, the heat rising in his cheeks at the words. He can barely get any words out. “I’m not rich.”

Yohan rolls his eyes. “Okay, fine. My cute hotshot doctor boyfriend then.”

Seungwoo lets out a strangled cry of protest, his voice a warning tone. “Yohan-“

“Seungwoo.” He hates how easily his name rolls off Yohan’s tongue like it belongs there, his eyes bright with expectation.

“Fine.” Seungwoo gives in, relents, unable to resist any longer, not _wanting_ to resist. “But you have to make sure to fill out all the paperwork to switch your care to a different doctor. I’ll leave some referral information for you at the front.”

Yohan winks at him. “Yes, Dr. Han.”

Perhaps Seungwoo’s heart races.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, kudos, and feedback are always appreciated!
> 
> Twitter: [@sidestickienote](https://twitter.com/sidestickienote)  
> CuriousCat: [@sidestickienote](https://curiouscat.qa/sidestickienote)  
> 


End file.
